Tuesday, March 13, 2007

A lone figure walked along the race track’s racing line, absently observing the thin layer of rubber deposited on the tarmac. Weaving between the track’s corners like a strip of stretched elastic band, the trail of rubber marked the path which have been travelled most often, and thus the path of minimal resistance.

The moon was up, a thin sliver of light barely discernible between light tufts of clouds.

His aunt would be getting married in 13 days, when the moon would be full. He had applied for 2 weeks of leave, but like in most racing teams, the services of the aerodynamist were critically needed for pre-season development.

Ahh what the hell… this piece of fiction is going nowhere; look exactly the same as the previous one.


In recent times, a certain class of events have morphed from mere occurrences to stimulants. They are starting to provoke a weak emotional response.

It’s not exactly disturbing, but I’d rather not be poked.


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The Moomba Water Festival held in Melbourne over the weekend had pyrotechnics. Tripod density along the river banks was preposterous. Oh, here’s a Manfrotto ball-head. And look, there’s a carbon-fibre Velbon over there!

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